


Grave Matters

by orphan_account



Category: Dead Like Me, Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Crime Drama, F/M, Grim Reapers, Inner workings of death, Not Beta Read, Progresses with the show, Psychological Horror, Slow Burn, Slow Starter, Spoilers, Supernatural - Freeform, Things are more complicated than they seem, Work In Progress, non-canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-23
Updated: 2017-06-14
Packaged: 2018-11-04 00:01:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10978125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Nearly four decades have passed since the notorious slew of murders along California’s freeways. With the apprehension of a third killer in 1983, the roads were thought to be safe for travel.It’s 34 years later … and fresh bodies are found deposited along Interstate 5 and the Mojave Freeway. With their unearthing come the discoveries of several skeletal remains, tactfully hidden among the sands and brush, concealed by time and wind and weather. It’s becoming clear that whoever is responsible has been at this for a long, long time … and is returning from retirement.Multiple police jurisdictions convene upon the investigation, including the LAPD. But the case is colder than the California heat allows. No evidence pointing to a suspect … Most of the victims are drifters or prostitutes disowned by their kin. And the murders are spaced out, making any patterns undecipherable. Their trails run dry the moment they are picked up.That is, until a peculiar woman stalks Chloe Decker with a promising lead.Which is difficult to believe … when the woman claims to have been a murdered Jane Doe.





	1. Prologue - Susie Q

**Author's Note:**

> Prologue only for now. Rest won't come until this season of Lucifer draws to a close.

_November 12, 1973_  
Northern Los Angeles County  
12:28 a.m.  
  
  
"I worry about you, Susie."  
  
A bitter chill hung in the air. Deep tendrils biting through flesh, burrowing into bone. Bumps prickled sallow skin. She pulled her flimsy, sorry excuse for a jacket tighter around her gaunt form and tried to pretend - Pretend it was summer. Pretend the sun was burning spots into her retinas. Pretend the blossoming cherry burning the end of her Lucky Strike would warm her from the core outward.  
  
The payphone receiver against her ear was dusty and brittle. "I know, Gran," grumbled Susan. "I'll be okay. Handled it so far, haven't I?"  
  
"By sheer luck alone, sweetie." If Susan listened closely, she could hear the wrinkles of her grandmother's face smacking together across the line. Thousands of miles apart. Several years late. But if she closed her eyes, if she tried to remember ... those days before things got bad: Grandma's auburn flesh pulling tight with broad grins; sugar cookies streaming endlessly from her overworked oven; cups of coffee slipped into her hands with soft "Don't tell your mother" whispers.  
  
"I've got luck by the ribbons."  
  
"It runs out," warned Grandma. "You have to be careful - "  
  
"I know - "  
  
"There's talk of a ... a _killer_ , you know. Up towards Seattle. And you're there _hitchhiking_ \- "  
  
"I'll be safe - "  
  
"It's not too late for me to contact the authorities, you know. They can ... they can help you find transportation, send you home - "  
  
"That's a _terrible_ idea," Susan bit. Her own harsh tone struck her down. Silence overpowered the phone line. An immediate wave of guilt crashed down. "Sorry. But I can't. You know I can't. They'd lock me up. Or ... or detain me. And in that time, _he'll_ find me and ... "  
  
Phantom cuts and bruises awoke; screeched wretched indignation. Throbbing in her ribs, searing in her arms, ripping between her thighs. Ghostly fingers wrapped heavily about her trachea. For a split second she forgot how to breath.  
  
Was she hyperventilating? Because Grandma came over the phone, voice high and alarmed. "Susan, are you alright?!"  
  
"Fine - fine, I'm fine." Focus. _Breath_. One ... two ... take in air, let it out ... "I'm fine." Look at the waxing moon. Look at the brilliant and numerous stars. Mesmerizing glows stretched beyond the rolling hills of parched grass and sand, surrounding the lonely truck stop on all sides - a single beacon of light lost in an ocean of celestial wonder. _One day you'll look back and paint this scene,_ she thought. _Splash it in blues and grays and blacks. Title it 'Escape'. Or ... no ... that's a terrible title ..._  
  
Yips from the night. One howl joined by another, then three. Coyotes. Ignore the wild calls. Ignore the notions of gnashing teeth prowling through the unseen.  
  
The payphone blurted its warning message and Susan sighed heavily into the receiver. "Gran, time's about up. I've got no change left."  
  
If only ... If only she'd held onto her last bit of cash. If only she hadn't caved into hunger and bought that stick of jerky from the oddly touchy clerk who grazed her hand a little too long.  
  
The sudden grinding in her ear told her that Grandma was wringing her phone. "Sweet Pea - "  
  
"I'm gonna catch ride along SR-7. Head east. Okay? I'll call you tomorrow when I'm out of California. I promise." Words began to merge with one another as she rushed to spit out what was necessary before she was cut off. "I'll see you soon."  
  
"We miss you, Susie. Please be safe."  
  
"I love y - "  
  
Droning humming. The line was dead - as empty as her pockets. Susan held the phone a little while longer ... hoping somehow it would spring to life again. When her long fingers grew too cold to handle, she hung it up and retreated them into her jacket.  
  
It wasn't her first time creeping around a truck stop like this in the middle of the night, but it was the first time in a long time when she wasn't 'on business'. The feel was the same. Forlorn, lusty eyes gazed upon her from parked big rigs. Trailing the length of her legs - from high heels to the hem of her short skirt: a poor choice to wear, considering the weather. But it was all she had - all she was ever allowed to don. And it made her feel ... vulnerable. A wounded doe encirled by a pack of hungry, diseased wolves.  
  
The longer she drifted, the more headlights were flashed her way - truckers bedding down for the night, beckoning her as a bed warmer to keep them company. She slunk away from their glare and perused the interstate's shoulder. Then, against her better judgment, she started northward - into the night. Out of sight. Until the gas station was a mere pinprick of light on the dismal horizon, and then nothing.  
  
These days the roads were awfully quiet at night. With the looming serial killer up north (and possibly south ... there were rumors ... ), not many dared the drift the lonely, hypnotic freeways when the sun was gone. So it was a good deal of time (hours? she lost track) before a pair of headlights illuminated the paved pathway to her left. They were accompanied by the roar of a large engine. Diesel. Eighteen wheels. Definitely not a minuscule yellow VW, so she supposed that was a good sign.  
  
She couldn't see the man's face as the truck groaned to a halt alongside her, but she heard his gruff voice (road-worn with a hint of youth) belt out the driver's side window. "Where ya headed?"  
  
Cupping her hands about her mouth, she had to shout back for him to hear. "East!"  
  
"Same! Hop in!" Perhaps she had taken a second longer than the man had liked, prompting him to lean over and open the door for her. The darkened crack opening her way was an invitation - warm and unusual. And unknown. "I'm not gonna bite. You comin' or what?"  
  
A gust of wind at her legs. Winter's brisk arrival nudged her into the more comfortable confines of the oversized silver beast ... one that had not been at the truck stop, thankfully. The stranger waited for her to get comfortable before cutting off the air brake and rolling off to a slow start.  
  
About twenty minutes into the ride, he cocked his head at her. A nice smile. A smooth face marred with bits of stubble. Glasses reflected light away from his eyes.  
  
She balked. "You're not old."  
  
"Were you expecting a senior?"  
  
"Most of you guys on the road are hitching your forties."  
  
A chuckle rolled seamlessly from his throat. "You got a name?" he inquired.  
  
" ... Susan."  
  
White teeth buckled into a grin. His hand strayed from the stick shift to the center console, digging about frantically and Susan felt her flesh instantly turn to ice. She clenched the truck seat, knuckles white, and deflated in relief when he drew back not a knife, not a gun ... but a cassette.  
  
_'Oh Susie Q, oh Susie Q_  
Oh Susie Q baby I love you, Susie Q  
I like the way you walk  
I like the way you talk'  
  
It was a tad cliche and horribly corny, listening to that damn song all the way down SR-7.

 _'Well, say that you'll be true_  
Well, say that you'll be true and never leave me blue,  
Susie Q'  
  
So maybe it wasn't a half bad song.  
  
Such a pity that it had to be crushed to bits and pieces and scattered to the desert some 200 miles up the road.  
  
And only 50 yards from Susan's sun-baked body.  



	2. Death by the Numbers

Betwixt the decades separating his untimely demise from current events, Saul DeMarco was no stranger to extraordinary events rocking the hum-dum-doldrum of ordinary days. _But_ , he surmised while flipping his phone into video mode and focusing on the scene, _we all know there's no such thing as an ordinary day anymore in LA._  
  
The crash of concrete. The spray of blood. A clash of fists and nails and occasionally _teeth_ orchestrated in perfect symphony with the perfectly normal chaos of the hellish city all around them. Two folks locked in combat in the fountain square just blocks from the beach. Ordinary people, probably, pushed to conflict via circumstances outside their control. _Or maybe she just caught him cheating or some crap_ , because **damn** that bronze beauty was slamming the ever-loving **_shit_** out of the tall man in the blue suit.  
  
They weren't the first ones to stop and gawk at the scene, paralyzed by the sheer brutality with which they beat one another (or the raw strength required to snap those cement pillars into deformed chunks). And June - the short, stout lady beside him adjusting her reading glasses for the forty-seventh time - was far from the first to utter, "Didn't anybody call the _cops_ yet?"  
  
"Dunno," Saul thrummed. Their eyes briefly interlocked with raised brows. This _was_ Los Angeles, after all. This stuff right here was about as normal as it got. With a sharkish grin, he thumbed the 'record' button and purred, "YouTube gold, _mami_!"  
  
"Just another episode of Fame or Shame." June's reddish curls bounced as her head shook. Plump cheeks jostled and she drew in a sharp, pained hiss as the man took a third nutshot that crumpled him to the ground. The male portion of the combatants' unintended audience echoed with sympathetic groans. Saul covered his genitals with a whimper as though a phantom punch might nail him in the nads. "Oh yeah. Shame. Definitely shame."  
  
The pissed-off-to-the-point-of-demonic woman sucker punched Suit in the jaw. He went flying - _flying_ \- into a concrete barrier and _how the hell was he getting up and **not** suffering a concussion_? Staggering to the center ... both winded, falling forward on their knees -  
  
\- _AUGH! AUGH!_  
  
Saul's phone bleated a crow call. He swiped the notification with a hum of disappointment.   
  
_'Hurry the duck up, staling them. Late.'  
  
AUGH AUGH!  
  
'Not duck. Duck.'  
'FUCK.'  
'Ducking asshole'  
  
_ June peered over his shoulder. Attempted to, at least. Given she was maybe an inch over five feet (and that was being generous), this was a failure. "Sue?"  
  
Saul regretfully pocketed his mobile. " _Vamos_ , before she curb-stomps her phone."  
  
"Or your head."  
  
_________  
  
They found Susan a few streets to the east. She was entertaining a triad of men (and one woman) in business suits with exaggerated hip movements and wildly flailing arms. Captivating their attention with some form with a tall tale. Probably. Or recounting a dubious story of their own history, minus the unearthly bits (he hoped). But her ruby lips were pulled tight, the painfully wide smile unbefitting of her - forced. And somehow though all that she managed to tap her foot impatiently.  
  
Saul plucked a post-it from the innards of his uniform collar. He never got a name wrong Memory of an elephant, he had. But it never hurt to make certain ... _J. Morston_ , scrawled in Susan's hasty chickenscratch. Destination? Here. Time? Five minutes and counting.   
  
She must've seen them coming as they rounded the corner. As they drew nearer, she swiveled towards them automatically and blurted, "Saul! June! There you are! Guess who I bumped into?"  
  
Oh her eyes were _screaming_ 'help me!'. He peered down his nose at her, easily towering over her form by at least a foot. She was a pristine beauty with pale skin and long black hair - _unobtainable_ , he reminded himself - and icicle eyes currently in the process of twitching. Or straining _not_ to twitch.   
  
His cue speared him, whether he wanted it or not. "And who would that be?"  
  
"Reverends Against Cult Worship," piped in the oldest penguin. Black and white and red all over (probably high blood pressure ... guy should see a doctor about that, not that it would matter soon). Perhaps he and Saul shared the same salt-and-pepper hair, but at least _Saul_ liked to think he made it look _good_. And _bottlecap glasses_? Atrocious. Penguin Senior cut the distance between them in three steps of his short legs. Closer examination drew Saul's eyes to the white collar, and ice pricked his spine. _Fan-tastic_. "Your treasurer told me all about you! You perform a valuable service! Just how long have you been sponsoring us?"  
  
Sponsoring? _Play along,_ said Susan's face.   
  
"Ever since I've taken my first breath since my own baptism!" His laugh was fake. Penguin Senior's was genuine. "It's only been a few months, _padre_."  
  
"Ah, but we have all served our Lord since the day of our conception!" _Kill me. Again._ Penguin Senior extended his hand. Saul gave the reverend a quick once-over. He loved business types ... So easy to make physical contact with, and a good any of them (especially those about to attend a meeting) wore name tags. It was no different here, albeit unnecessary, because black-and-white introduced himself as, "Reverend John Morston. An absolute pleasure to meet another of our flock."  
  
Their fingers interlocked. A wave of electricity flooded his fingers, tingling against the Father's with a soft golden glow that brushed up the length of his arm and vanished beyond the elbow. There was the briefest glimmer of confusion on John Morston's face - noticing the sensation, then casting it aside.  
  
"It must be difficult to spread the word in this city," Saul said to him as their connection broke. From the corners of his eyes, he watched June take a similar action with the other man of the group. Meanwhile the third, the woman, was hailing a taxi.  
  
"Los Angeles is a city of sinner," muttered Father John bitterly. "Languishing in filth. Brimming with revelers of depravity and sinful practices."  
  
"You have no idea."  
  
"But in time, the Light will return and Faith will be restored once more." Saul wondered if the old preacher had bad eyesight, for the Father's gaze had finally ventured upon his outfit and gray eyebrows knitted together in surprise. "My, how honorable! You're a police officer?"  
  
It wasn't the first time _that_ mistake was made. Vexing nonetheless. Saul patted the patch on his shoulder - a white cross embroidered with a twisting serpent - and shook his head. "A paramedic, Father, but close enough."  
  
"A beautiful career." John Morston grabbed at his hand again, held it tight. Saul wanted nothing more than to yank away. "Your actions will be rewarded in the next life, my son. He's always watching."  
  
"Oh, I'm sure he is." The venom in his words was so well-hidden that the preacher didn't even notice. Good. He didn't need to hear a sermon.  
  
"Father John!" called the woman reverend. She waved at him from the streetside. A cab had pulled up to accept them. Its previous occupant was a young boy, who leaned through the driver window to pay and slowly marched his way to linger at Susan's side, pretending to watch the pedestrian lights.  
  
John Morston, aged 61 and soon to be dead, bid farewell. Something about going to a convention hall for an event about Christian blah blah blah. Truthfully Saul had stopped listening the second the old man turned his head. June dipped under the awning of a coffee shop. Saul followed soon after, shadowed by Susan and the young boy, who by the time they converged into a group was holding her hand.   
  
As the cab pulled away, Saul stared Susan down. "Reverends Against Cult Worship?"  
  
"The first breath since your baptism?" she snorted.   
  
" _Dios mio_ ... "  
  
June sighed. "Good thing they didn't know what _we_ are."  
  
The little boy pointed upwards. A brownish black blur no larger than a cat was racing up a building's side. "They're about to."  
  
At the corner of the next street, there was a crane. Construction had been underway on the damned high-rise for almost three months now. Saul felt for the construction workers toiling away in the rising heat of coming summer. Long hours. Excessive temperatures made ten times worse by the sunlight reflecting off window panes and steel.   
  
Somewhere up there was a man at the crane's controls with beads of sweat rolling into his eyes, pulling away from sticks and buttons long enough to wipe the moisture away, teeter out of the mechanism and scavenge for a water bottle.   
  
Long enough for a creature of mottled brown and black flesh to manifest itself within his seat, undetected. Porcupine-like quills rattled along its hunched back. Sharp teeth gnashed together, wide yellow eyes tight and curious and laced with mania. Contemplation evolved into reckless abandon. The beast swatted away at everything in reach. In a mere second, the crane's hook had dropped against the building roof and dragged to the edge, pushing with it a 20x35 hunk of sheet metal that flapped briefly in the wind and careened down to the street below.   
  
_________  
  
  
_"Of course **you** wouldn't, because that would actually require you understanding **how** you affect people."_  
  
Mazikeen's fists stung. Left bruises. Cuts. Bleeding orifices in his divine flesh that would take a considerable time to mend. Wounds only able to be inflicted upon him by something forged in Hell, which she _was_ (until, of course, the Detective's uncanny ability to make him vulnerable rolled into play).   
  
But her _words_ were what left him nursing a dull, indescribable ache in his chest ... along with a decanter of whiskey. Not that it would do him any good. Divine blood be damned (and hadn't it already?), human alcohol did little to inhibit his senses. Perhaps he should have invited the Detective for a drink since it seemed to lower his tolerance to drugs. _No, that wouldn't be any good either_. It hurt being around _her_ too. Too close. Too far away.  
  
Hurt being around Amenadiel. The family favorite. Not him.  
  
Hurt being around _mum_. Just another reminder of his family's treachery.   
  
Nimble fingers danced about the piano's keys. Black and white. A chessboard. Pawns awaiting sacrifice for the better of their king.   
  
_"What the hell **am** I, Lucifer? A pawn in some plan of yours?"  
  
_ Of course not. He _thought_ not. Maze thought differently. _Felt_ differently. Had practically _cried_ in front of him, and there was that nagging, throbbing knot beneath his ribs again. It wasn't just her, either. The good Doctor had practically spat venom at him. She was cast out from her employment courtesy of Lucifer's own mouth. Another stab in the chest.   
  
And ...   
  
He dared not invite the recollections of Chloe upon his return from Las Vegas, and the dam burst open before he could plug the holes. The way her voice hitched - _"I thought we were ... friends."_ The strain in her smile and the huskiness in her voice as if fighting back hurt. How she'd attempted to kick him off the case and, by extension, her _life_.   
  
Would it have been easier to lay down the facts in front of her?  
  
Explain Charlotte, Amenadiel, Candy Morningtar?  
  
Show her his _face_?  
  
Lucifer recalled Linda's wide, terrified eyes and trembling lips and thought, _Certainly not_ , at the notion of Chloe Decker turning tail and scampering away in fear. _Absolutely not,_ at the idea of never seeing her again, even if it wasn't as ... as ...   
  
_What?_  
  
Knuckles gone white. He slammed the cover over the keys and immediately regretted abusing such a fine instrument. Threading fingers through his hair, the devil pressed his elbows atop it and leaned in. He could feel the ring graze across his scalp and fought the temptation to rip it off and hurl it through the window.   
  
Azrael's blade hummed like an impatient lover from the counter. Finally intact, minus Amenadiel's piece. It was time. Almost. And then ... and then ...   
  
And then, he wasn't sure.   
__  
  


 


	3. Do Not Sit Close to Your Television

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anybody reading this without having watched the Dead Like Me television series ... I strongly recommend it. There's only two seasons (and you can find it on Hulu). BUT, if you haven't, I will do my best to explain things as they come up. For instance ... the Graveling in this chapter. 
> 
> Also I understand there are no notable appearances of Lucifer & Co. YET. So far I am establishing the Los Angeles Reaper Crew. But they will come. Starting in the next chapter. Which won't go up until after this next episode.

  
  
Susan spent the night as she normally would.   
  
She would creep into their apartment complex a little past sunset, God-willing. This wasn't always the case. Oftentimes late reaps would push their arrival until after midnight. In other cases, they would gather as a large gaggle of undead geese and feast in some low-key diner somewhere (and, rarely, at nicer places. Money wasn't always handy.)  
  
Tonight she was given the opportunity to retire early.

Saul retreated to the local hotspot, a nefarious nightclub dubbed Lux - keen to 'live' as he had died.

June bailed to the boardwalk. The fair was kicking into full swing. All carnival rides and ferris wheels and, "Enough funnel cake to make ya sick for weeks," quoth the Reaper, chippermore. "Why don't ya come with? You could use some fun." The redhead shrugged a shoulder at the boy holding Susan's hand. "Dragon'll love it."  
  
"I need the fair like I need a hole in my wallet." She gave Jeremy Pfisher's little hand a squeeze. He yawned on cue. "We're both beat. And I have to go through the Ledger."  
  
Bespectacled eyes widened incredulously. " _Again_? But you just - "  
  
A wink. "A manager's job is never done, doll."  
  
"You say that now," June scolded, jabbing a pudgy finger into Susan's ribcage. "But you know the sayin'. 'All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy'." Then she squatted down low and grinned into Jeremy's face. "I'll make sure n' grab you some funnel cake, kay?"  
  
When June turned to leave, Susan dared to lift her head, close her eyes, and exhale slowly. Truth be told, she'd love to feel the sea breeze gracefully brush her face, or smell the salt water when it wasn't filled with blood (by shark attack or boat accident). Maybe soon. Dip her toes in the water. Take Jeremy crabbing. Ride some teacups.   
  
Maybe soon. But not tonight.   
  
Susan never had children when she was alive - or at least she didn't _think_ she did. So she couldn't exactly peg her impulse to get Jeremy home before it was too late on an instinct she never garnered, and it wasn't like he needed to be up for school. The boy never really argued it, though. Once in a while he might insist on going to an arcade or to get a milkshake, but mostly he was content to relax on the moth-eaten sofa next to her and watch National Geographic documentaries until her fell asleep with his head in her lap.   
  
This evening was no different.  
  
They were at the fifth commercial through a marathon about Mesopotamian Dynasties when he started to snore. Susan waited another ten minutes before gently carrying him to the bedroom, tucking him in ... watching the gentle rise and fall of his little chest with little breaths ...   
  
Then she would tiptoe her way into the kitchen, change the channel to some local news, and remove the Ledger from a cupboard. It was an old leather-bound parcel with torn seams and yellow pages. Bringing it into the open was always accompanied with the heavy musk of mildew and something undefined. She'd had to replace the paper multiple times and there were strange stains along the spine. Susan often thought about getting something newer, but she was steeped in tradition. Her predecessor had used this very same book, and his before him.   
  
Besides, it wasn't like she could convince upper management to take on texting or e-mails. Mostly because there was _no way_ to communicate with upper management. And what were they, even?  
  
She procured a stack of post-it notes and set about copying information down to be divvied out when they convened for breakfast the next morning.   
  
_First initial.  
Last name.  
Location.  
Estimated time of death._   
  
Only six tomorrow. One at the hospital. Pity.  
  
Movement pricked her ears into overdrive. A skittering noise. Her first guess was a cockroach - the complex was _infested_ with them - or a rat in the walls - again, _infestation_. Bright blue eyes scanned the scene.

Nothing.   
  
_Huh_.  
  
Third post-it. _L. Meristo, 422 East 2nd Street, Little Tokyo, 2:39 p.m._ Wasn't that a sushi joint? _Bet you it's an allergic reaction._  
  
**_"Police responding to a public altercation this afternoon were met with a grisly surprise en route when a construction accident led to the deaths of four unfortunate taxi-goers,"_** thrummed the news reporter across the room. Susan's gaze flickered briefly to observe the coverage. **_"Officials say a crane began to swing wildly when its operator left his post for a drink and - "_**  
  
"Old news," she hummed, and scribbled away.   
  
_Skritch-skritch_  
  
Another look around. Another bunch of nothing. Susan was keen to dismiss it as some unseen (and not noteworthy) pest when a blur of white raced suddenly past her feet out of _nowhere_ so unexpectedly that she yelped and fell backwards onto the ground.   
  
Then it was gone. Vanished beyond her sight into the living room. Behind the sofa? In the bathroom? She didn't know, but the _sound_ that quivered in her presence now? Oh ... oh she knew _that_ noise. Bristles brushing together like dried reeds beside a pond ... the hushed wobble of concentrated wind ... hissing, so low in volume that it might be mistaken for rising steam.  
  
"Goodie." Susan growled and pushed herself to her knees. "Graveling."  
  
She did not stand. Instead, she crawled her way through the kitchen with the intent to catch their trespasser off guard. Susan was halfway past the couch when it sensed her and scuttled - still in a blur - behind the television. What was once a clear picture transformed into a pool of angry white noise courtesy of supernatural interference.  
  
If the Graveling was still hissing, Susan could no longer hear it above the television.  
  
But she could _see_ it.  
  
Foggy at first ... gaining definition and proportion as she drew nearer and nearer until finally, within a foot of the small screen television, the creature decided to _show_ itself. It rounded the wooden box slowly. Legs stiff. Eyes wide. Hackles - or, in this case, pin-needles raised. Rugged lips pulled back. Mighty jowels of piranha teeth gnashed. Saliva pooled from the corners of its mouth, baseball-sized eyes yellow and wild and _locked_ onto her.   
   
There were many ways to explain the appearance of a Graveling. Demonic spawn from hell. Gremlins. Mutated cats, and certainly no larger than Maine Coons. Susan thought they looked like wretched hybrids between monkeys and porcupines. Hairless, with mottled flesh and clusters of warts. Their unnaturally long arms and legs helped them clamber easily up walls and ceilings. The only indicator they had noses were the slit nostrils dotting a poorly defined face and there were mere holes where ears should have been. Racing from their skulls to the end of their tailbones were rows upon rows of quivering spines that rattled and shook when threatened or angered.  
  
And this Graveling was a tambourine of rage.  
  
Susan should not have been compelled to treat farther, but she did - stretching forward, hand slowly reaching outwards because this Graveling was also very, "Different."

The harshness in her blue oculars had softened into something of awe, trailing along the creature's harsh outline and drawn to the colors. Normally hued in brown and black, these creatures were the definition of 'shit-heads'.  
  
But this one was pale. _White_. With each irritated twitch of its chin, with each puff of its throat, Susan saw different colors. Flashes of rose. Bursts of sky blue. Faint hues. Wondrous iridescence. And an indescribable need to _touch_ it.  
  
The White Graveling stared at her hand. It was ill-advised to inch closer but Susan was compelled even when it feinted a launch and lurched backwards. What was once a threatened hiss accelerated into a putrid bellow, a _screech_ that blistered Susan's eardrums.   
  
But it was only when the White Graveling slammed its slender fingers against the television box that Susan reeled back onto her ass. A loud **_BOOM!_** accompanied by the sudden return of color and noise and moving pictures.

A different reporter was back on the screen. No longer was the backdrop focused on the city block where a taxi cab had been crushed by metal, but a long and winding highway sidewinding along the Mojave Desert. A live feed. Police vehicles in the background. Flashing reds and blues and yellow 'Police Line Do not Cross' tape and a medical examiner carting a body in a black bag across the asphalt on a gurney.  
  
**_" - the second body discovered in the past two weeks."_** A cold chill started beneath her ribs and encased her heart. No longer was the Graveling of any importance. Her attention was locked to something new. _Or something old?_ Fuzzy recollections ... voices murmuring from a memory she could not recollect ... **_"This following the excavation of skeletal remains on the Mojave Freeway just five miles south of San Bernardino, authorities stress that any drivers exercise extreme caution when driving at night - "_**  
  
The Graveling was not moving. Instead, it studied her. The rattling quills stalled, the growing dying down.   
  
Susan paid it no heed.  
  
The screen had pulled her into its domain. Words droned by the reporter from a teleprompter surrounded her, sucked her in, pierced her ears and drowned her brain. Imagery blurred. _Fingers around her throat_. Breathing hurt. _Blood. What smelled like blood?_ Gasping. Heaving.  
  
Something on the screen ... something on the live feed ... A shadow that walked alongside the medical examiner. Lurching. Then stopping ... Turning towards the rolling camera ... Lumbering towards it. Past the oblivious police. _Through_ the yellow tape. **_Phasing_** beyond the reporter until the hulking form of moving shadows was staring through the screen, staring into her very _soul_ -  
  
A slit formed in the 'face', transfiguring into a concave of twitching teeth. Flashing red orbs where eyes should have been. And then it screamed - loud, shrill, **deafening** _and her skull felt like it had exploded and she was clawing to relieve it and where was her head where was her **head** -  
  
_ Fizzling electricity and smoke filled her nostrils, quietly ushering away the news droll. Susan blinked slowly, tears she had been unaware of silently rolling down her cheeks. No more television, because there was no more screen.   
  
"When ... how ... ?"  
  
Her fist, during the tantrum, had thrown itself through the glass. Smoke streamed through the massive gasp. Splashes of red decorated the shattered glass, and ribbons of skin and flesh hung loose from her arm.   
  
Susan removed her appendage and held it close to her chest. It would heal - blood was already starting to return to the wounds, where cells and tissue and skin slowly stitched themselves together - but the stinging pain would remain for a while.   
  
Jeremy was at the bedroom doorway, brown hair roughened up and rubbing his eyes. "Nana?" he whispered groggily. "What happened? Why'd you break the tv?"  
  
She opened her mouth to explain. Words turned into crackling nonsense. A moment ago, she was ... and there was ...   
  
_And the Graveling_ \-   
  
But there was no use in searching for the creature. As mysteriously as it had arrived in her apartment, it was gone.

 

 

 


	4. Visiting Hours

Just six more hours.  
  
Surely Saul could last until then.   
  
But the back of the ambulance stank of epinephrine and vomit with the lingering metallic tang of old blood. California heat did to his shirt what sweat of exertion had already started. It clung to his skin. He felt claustrophobic.   
  
Under normal circumstances he'd be nagging Jericho up front to spin the A/C dial like a turntable. Couldn't do that now, though. Not with this pale as a fucking ghost patient staring Death from the stretcher. All glazed eyes and cold skin and shivering muscles. Neurogenic shock. _Idiota shouldn't've been playin' in the tub_. Kid was a surfer. Ventured into the tide at night to catch a wave, then catch a rock when he fell off his board.  
  
It was the seventh call of the night, but the second from Santa Monica pier.   
  
At least _this_ patient was quiet. His predecessor, a MILF named Charlotte Richards, spent the ride squawking like a parrot. _'This atrocious board is hurting my back!'_ and _'How dare you manhandle me?! I'll have your job!'_ She suffered a possible spinal injury after taking a dive off the pier. He'd half a mind to cut the stretcher loose while rolling down the highway and let traffic finish the job.  
  
If he didn't need the money to _eat_ ...   
  
"Am I gonna die?" mumbled the surfer dude, barely coherent and hardly audible, for the second time that night.   
  
Saul tucked the blanket tighter around the man's shoulders. "I don't got your post-it." At the boy's confused grimace, the paramedic shook his head. "Not on my watch."  
  
It was a truth. A partial one. Kid wasn't gonna die on the way _to_ the hospital, at least. But who the hell knew who, and _if_ , one of the doctor/nurse reapers had his name on their list?  
  
Dry lips smacked apart. Boy's tongue was rolling about his mouth, looking for moisture. "Water ... ," he begged. " ... please ... "   
  
"Sorry, _hombre_." Saul flicked the saline drip. "This all the water you gonna get 'til you stabilize."  
  
" _Whhhyyy_?"  
  
"Ey, don't you start whining on me. Strong guys don't whine, amIright?" The kid, a Brandon Michaels, straightened up as much as he could, provided the rigid straps to his spineboard. "Ya drink sumthin' when ya go into shock, makes yer stomach work harder than yer heart. Know what I mean?"  
  
Saul glanced through the windshield over his shoulder. They were just pulling into the hospital parking lot when Brandon groaned, "Wanted ... to be famous ... Best surfer. Go to Hawaii. But ... wiping out ... " Defeat fluttered his eyelids shut. "S'okay ... Gotta get back up. Get better. Yeah?" Saul formed a bitter frown. "Jus' ... _shit_ , legs cold ... Can't feel 'em still."  
  
'Get back up' wasn't the best choice of words, but Saul couldn't bring himself to correct the lad. What was he supposed to say? _'Nah, kid. You had a fuckin' welt the size of a goddamned grapefruit on the back of yer neck. Definitely broke a vertebrae. Lucky ya didn't knick number five, or ya'd be getting rolled out in a bag.'_ Or maybe, _'Listen bud, I wouldn't be talkin' surfing. Or, you know, running. Or even walkin'. But I hear there're wheelchair olympics ... '  
  
_ Shit. The kid just turned 18. The rest of his life was gonna be spent rolling around with spaghetti legs. _Be upbeat, dickhead._ "Well yer buddies were talkin' a big game about ya. Braggin'. You been surfing since you were ten?"  
  
The weak smile became a broader grin. "Hell yeah ... Dad taught me ... "  
  
"They said ya kicked some ass out there." Saul patted Brandon's leg - a mistake, since the boy's lack of sensation stirred concern in his twitching mouth. He quickly made up for it by stating that, "Youre friends, man, they flyin' _rapido_ after we packed ya up. They're rollin' in right behind us. They gonna stick with you. It'll be a'right."  
  
The ambulance stopped and Jericho hollered from the front, "We're here, boss!" Then words faded into movements. Saul opened the back doors - watched a tall, suited man walk briskly across the emergency lane, bickering into a phone - and worked on removing the stretcher. Jericho joined his side to assist.

" - coming over now to tell you the truth about me, 'cause I think it's time I finally open your eyes." A slick, melodious voice. Smooth like butter. The tall guy in the suit with long arms and legs - _Slenderman exists, ladies and gents_ \- striding gracefully further and further away. Hairs rose along Saul's neck. A chill, brief but thorough. Then gone.  
  
He blamed it on the wind ripping across his dampened back.

"Let's go for a ride, Brandon," Saul announced to his patient, and they cruised on. Over the curb. Past a tall, hooded figure smoking a cigarette and leaning heavily on a thick wooden cane, and through the double automatic doors.   
  
____________  
  
  
"C'mon, bro." Jericho, with his shimmering bald head and Cup o' Noodul-smelling breath, jabbed Saul with a stocky shoulder once they'd unloaded their now-paraplegic patient onto the emergency room doctors. "Let's take a quick peek at Mackey, huh?"  
  
Saul was leaning on the nurses' station counter, scribbling away their call sheet. "He's upstairs," was his distracted answer, not bothering to look up.  
  
"And we're _here_."  
  
"We're on _call_."  
  
"So we'll hurry." The Cuban paramedic finished writing his last sentence, dropped the pen, and blinked. Unrelenting. Jericho groaned, play-punching Saul with his massive dark-skinned fists. "Come _on_. You know they're talking about releasing him tomorrow?"  
  
Saul reeled back in surprise. " _Already_?"   
  
Mackey was one of their own - an AMR paramedic with a heart of gold and an alcohol problem. His latest stunt with the bottle ... and his very nice, very _hot_ Spyder ... ended with multiple broken bones (among other issues), a broken utility pole, and a completely _fucked_ ride.  
  
"Yeah," answered Jericho, tossing his nitrile gloves into the trash. "Probably gonna be the last time we see him. They're haulin' him straight to jail once he gets out."  
  
"At least it's only for the DUI, that poor dipshit." He joined Jericho in replacing the stretcher's soiled sheets with crisp, hospital-provided ones. "Fuckin' idiot. He coulda killed somebody. Or himself." About 26% of the Reapers he knew were murdered by drunk drivers, and another 3% were the drivers themselves.  
  
"Brother lucked out the roads were dead that night."  
  
Saul's screwed his face up in disgust. "What makes ya think I wanna see that scumbag?"  
  
" _Jesus_ , guy. Ya were buddies before, and now you _hate_ his ass? Just last month y'all were partying at his place. Got fucking _wrecked_ with some babes, no?"  
  
"Before he got so _careless_ \- "  
  
"It was an _accident_ ," growled Jericho. He started fishing through his pockets, pointedly avoiding his partner's burning gaze. "Look, I ain't sayin' he was right. Not a damn soul in the department that don't wanna lay a whuppin' on his fat ass. We lost a _good_ fucking medic. But shit if we ain't all got bad days. Mackey, he just ... he jumped off a bigger cliff, ya feel me?" Discovering his prize, a piece of spearmint gum, Jericho went about unwrapping it and began to chew furiously. "Landed on some fucking knives too. But we played for the same team. He's still a _brother_ , so show him some love, a'ight? His life's gonna be a downward spiral from this point on." He offered Saul a piece of minty wrapped goodness. "So let's send him off on a good note. Least we can do."  
  
He regarded the tiny parcel for a few seconds, then ripped it from Jericho's thick paws. "Five minutes," hissed the Reaper to his living partner. "And if you ain't done talkin' by then, I'm leavin' yer ass here."  
  
_________  


They barely stepped foot into the ICU before Saul's pocket started to vibrate and sing 'Beat It'. Jericho fired a half-cocked grin, one eyebrow raised. "I didn't know ya liked MJ, bro.""  
  
"I don't," grumbled Saul. Fingers frantically nudged the volume buttons until it shut up. With a glance to the caller ID, he waved a hand to his AMR partner. "Go on - it's my sister from another mister. Gotta take it."  
  
The tall black man nodded, thrummed, "Handle your biz. Room 504A, got it?" and sauntered off. Several nurses veered off the beaten path to simultaneously avoid and marvel at him. After all, Jericho was an intimidating monster of a man - easily topping off at 6'9".  
  
The Reaper only hit 'call' when his coworker was out of earshot. " _Que_?"  
  
"Guess who's holding the paperwork to the old furniture place?" June Valentina's voice took on a low, sultry tone when she was pleased with herself. Like a milk-fed kitten. It gave him goosebumps. "Or - sorry - should I say 'the newly re-zoned residence currently in my name'?"  
  
Saul smacked his lips together, chocolate eyes wide. "No _shit_! You got it done!?"  
  
"Turns out two dudes on the zoning board are Plague Division. We ... ah ... " Her prolonged pause spoke paragraphs, and her purr confirmed his suspicions. "We _worked something out_."  
  
Pinching the bridge of his nose, Saul stifled a chuckle. "You _didn't_ ," groaned the man. His legs carried him unconsciously down the hall, towards the corner, and back again. June emitted some kind of giddy gargle and Saul barked a laugh. "You fucked up, chunky little minx!"  
  
He could almost _see_ her mouth twisting in disapproval. "Call me _fat_ again, you dickhead geezer, and I'll rip your fuckin' testic - "  
  
"Did ya tell Sue yet? She been talkin' about this Graveling botherin' her, wants to get her and Dragon out ASAP." _And let's not even get **into** the multiple violations of building and health codes ... _  
  
_Step step_. Continual pacing brought him into view of several ICU rooms. Patients of different statuses. Those with the blinds down were worse for wear - in comas, horribly ill, or facing off with death. Far more windows were open to the hallway, and Saul's gaze flitted across each person without their knowing. A few were peacefully asleep. Only one or two were wide awake. It was, after all, very late.  
  
Drawing in a deep breath, June was simmering down her blazing rage from a second ago. "She's my next call. You want the honors?"  
  
Saul stopped in front of a room's observation window and stared blankly into it. "Hell yea. When can we head over?"  
  
"Tomorrow morning good?"  
  
"Reaps pending."  
  
"Of course."  
  
Tapping his foot, it took Saul several blinks to realize he'd been locked onto another person's gaze. The patient inside, a young woman with messy blond hair who had clearly seen better days, watched him with mild concern. Confusion. Reading glasses hung loosely off her nose, magnifying icy blue irises.  
  
He fired a grin off her way - bright and wide with pearly whites. It quirked a smile on her thin lips. "We're gonna have to hire some contractors, yea? Plumbers. Electricians. That shit."  
  
"And you being the _manly man_ don't know how to do that kinda stuff?"  
  
"Do I look like fuckin' Mario?" June snorted. "Now _carpentry_ , I can handle. We're gonna need it."  
  
"Wallets're going to hurt with everything else though. Same time tomorrow?"  
  
"You got it, June Bug."  
  
She had a habit of hanging up without saying goodbye, and this time was no different. Sighing, Saul resume his awkward attention on the woman before him. Kind of cute, in a 'recovering from some grievous injury' sort of way. He held a hand beside his face and did a little wave. The woman did the same, albeit much more stiffly. _Guarding the abdomen,_ Saul thought, watching her curl just slightly in the gurney.  
  
He toyed with the idea of making small talk with her when his radio keyed up. Jericho bolted down the hall, smacking Saul hard on the arm as he breezed by. "Two car MVA, let's go!"  
  
Okay, maybe no talking _right now_.  
  
But later was another story. After all, the hospital was gonna be a second home to them tonight.  
  
________________  
  
  
The excruciating throbbing in the back of his head was what woke him from that dreary, _unwanted_ sleep. And had it been any other occasion, he would have languished in stirring. But the knowledge of pain - the fact that _pain couldn't happen unless the Detective was around_ \- forced Lucifer to roll onto his knees. His skull protested with reckless hammering and he bit back a keen.

 _Still at the hospital._ He smelled, felt, _tasted_ ash. Why? _Just saw the good Doctor._ Horrid heat. Unbearable, normally. But no orange glow of fire beyond his tightened eyelids.   
  
Long fingers traced the cranium. Hair was matted and wet just where the headbone connected to the neckbone. Drifting his hand past his face, Lucifer could smell the metal of his own blood.   
  
One eyes opened. Blurry gray shapes moved in the distance.

"Detective?"  
  
Had she been closer than he anticipated? Followed him tot he hospital, even? It was unlikely. Correct? There had been something finite in the way Chloe turned away at the pier that night - something that made his heart - _the Devil does not have a heart_ \- drop six feet under. Something that dropped the final ingredients into his final decision before Linda gave the pot a spurring stir.

But ... surely news about Linda's condition would have leaked by now ... Maze was bound to say something to her sooner or later.  
  
So why wasn't he hearing traffic? Ambulances? Car horns or police sirens? The chatter of humans on those addictive phones? A plane heading to the LAX? Ridiculously heeled shoes running his way (seriously, how could she sprint so well in those things?), or Chloe shouting for him?  
  
Getting to his feet was a rough decision. Thwarted initially by a wave of nausea, the second attempt was more successful. He wobbled. Nearly vomited. Got the hang of it eventually. Rubbed his eyes to remove the fogginess. And one more time, louder now: " **Detective?** "  
  
"Sorry, brother." The flow of words behind him was familiar. Soft. A feather on his stinging back. Almost _angelic_. Lucifer's teeth ground together. "No humans in this domain except for souls due to be punished."  
  
Punished?  
  
Opening his darkened oculars provided him with a terrible sense of _deja vu_. Lucifer knew these grayscale hallways. He'd walked them several times before, brushed his hands across the same warped doorways, for a millenia since his condemnation.   
  
Lucifer sucked in his breath, fingers forming into fists. The smallest tick, and he was sure to explode.   
  
Instead, he whirled with arms sweeping out to his sides and biggest, _fakest_ open-mouthed smile stretching his delicate features thin. " _Brothers_!" he spat venom. "To what do I owe this occasion?"  
  
Those marring his visage were twins in height and outfits. Shimmering blond curls, one wearing it longer than the other. Billowing robes of starkest alabaster, outshined only by the pale hue of the full, thick wings ejecting from their backs. The ghostly flesh of the longer-haired angel's fingers almost glowed against the dismal backdrop as they were raised, extended, to their darker brother.   
  
"That is _quite_ the suit," he spoke gently. "And the hair? Fell for a more robust black? Verily, your glamour works well for you."  
  
Lucifer glanced once the angel's open palm. He swept to the side to avoid it. "We both know Father did very _little_ for my present appearance, Remiel." And he allowed the beauty to drop. Charred red muscle and exposed sinew replaced what had once been a glorious complexion.   
  
Remiel retracted as though he'd been slapped. Brief disgust. Lucifer's maw twisted into a sardonic smirk, intensifying as reddish orbs locked on the second angel.   
  
"Cat still got your tongue, Duma?" he rumbled.   
  
Duma's head dipped, but he did not speak.  
  
Remiel cleared his throat. "Brother, we have several topics to discuss with you - "  
  
"But you're hardly here for a friendly conversation, are you?" The faux smile dispersed, vanishing into pure fury. A titular frown. Whites of his teeth barely exposed between the slightly parted lips. Ridges above the eyes doing what his lack of eyebrows could not: narrowing his hellish gaze into slits. "No, if it were something so droll, we could have done it topside, hmm? Banter over coffee and cake? But to drag me back _to this **loathsome**_ \- "

"Father has ordered us to take charge of your kingdom, brother."  
  
Lucifer's face fell. Surprise! "Oh."   
  
"But truthfully, I would rather not shoulder this burden."  
  
"Oh." That made more sense. He began grounding his teeth again. "Not so eager to accept the 'gift' wrought upon you by Father, are you? And just what did _you_ do to irritate the old man, hmm? How about you, Duma?" Silence. "Nothing?"  
  
"We - well, _I_ would like to negotiate. Implore upon you, even," Remiel offered. His voice was borderline begging. If his moral compass was a little stronger at the moment, he might have felt a little _bad_ for him. Maybe. Probably not. "To take it back. Take Gehenna again. I have no desire to maintain this ... this _place_."  
  
Lucifer blinked at him. Several times.  
  
And then he laughed in his face.

It felt like several minutes before his ribs started to ache and the guffawing trickled into muffled chuckles. He wrapped an arm about his side and leaned in, malicious teeth shining from ear to ear, and hissed, "Not a chance, brother. Or, hey, not a chance in _Hell_." With a flippant gesture, the former hellraiser turned heel and strutted away. "You can have this so-called _kingdom_. As I've spent the last several months telling Amenadiel and dear old Mum" - a pang in his chest - "I've no intention of coming back. Not to Heaven. Not to Hell. Now, you will escort me out. Can't quite fly out anymore, can I?"  
  
Remiel's throat cracked. He opened his mouth, uttered a single vowel, and let it slip away. After swallowing several times, he stepped forth and called, "Samael!"  
  
Lucifer was fairly certain a knife had been drawn against his backside. Flashes of red overcame his vision. Breathing went from smooth to ragged. His pulse was liquid lightning. Suddenly he was no longer walking in the opposite direction. He was upon Remiel, fist enclosed around the angel's puny neck with no recollection of how he got there. While Duma pulled frantically at Lucifer's arm, Remiel was scrabbling at the hellion's knuckles - trying to push them away, beat them off.

It was the shocked hurt conquering Remiel's eyes that cooled Lucifer's anger. Horror and betrayal and surprise and _the ghost of Uriel's face before he_ \-   
  
His hand fell away, mouth still twitching. " _Never_ ," he growled, a lion issuing a threat to some intruding beast, " _call me by that name again_." Duma tugged Remiel away, clung to his arm as means to comfort the quivering angel. "And never request this of me again. Earth is ... " Pausing to muse over the words threatening to escape his maw, Lucifer deemed them okay to speak ... even if they felt so unusual to hear in his own mind, let alone rolling off his tongue. "Earth is home to me now. _That_ is where I belong."  
  
But Remiel, though his vocals shivered, denied this. "You can't." A mere whisper. Fearful. "We can't let you."  
  
Lucifer was sure a dragon was rousing in his chest. Fire threatened to tear through his throat. "And _why_ pray tell, is _that_ , **dear brother**?"  
  
The looming shadow of his older brother should have been enough to silence the younger scourge, but when Remiel gazed upon him, Lucifer stepped backwards. He understood fear. Lucifer's powers were well beyond their own. But to this level of terror ...   
  
"Father."  
  
"Desires to lock me away in this dungeon? _Again_?"  
  
"There is far more to it than that, brother." Remiel held a breath, cut it loose slowly. "There is _something_ and ... " Sea legs. He was on his feet, held up by his twin. "And ... we must keep you here. Please. It is not something we want to fulfill. However ... "  
  
In unison, the pair spread their wings. Aware of their eagerness to flee and equally aware of how futile his attempts to leave Hell would be if left behind, Lucifer lunged for them. An immediate wave of agony rolled in waves from his right calf to the hip. Needles in his muscles. Knives tearing skin and breaking bone. A wretched force, pulling him away as his siblings took flight, hovering with expressions contorted in apology.  
  
And a low growling at his rear.  
  
"You will grow to understand."  
  
Lucifer howled after them. It was joined with the song of dual canines, spinning their own variants on their master's torment ... and the grunting of a third, it's mouth full of devil leg.   
  
He'd had a special place in his black heart for that demonic pooch. This was, however, the very first time he ever wished to put the damned Cerberus down.   
  
_______  
  
At some point throughout the night, Chloe Decker went from sitting in the kitchen with a hot cup of coffee to perched on the porch with a colder version of her brew. She only managed a few sips before her mind took hold of the wheel. Looking at the murky brown liquid now was more a placebo than anything else. A lake of truth. Contemplation. Whatever you wanted to call it.  
  
Lucifer called three hours ago. She'd been tucking Trixie into bed ... left the phone in her room ... didn't even hear it go off. Left a voicemail. She gave it a listen. Felt a rush of excitement. Of hope. Of _something else_ that needed to be reminded of Las Vegas and Candy Morningstar and 'just friends' to be forced back down.

Three hours.   
  
After the first sixty minutes, she sent a text. _'Are you okay?'_ Then time. And doubt. Maybe he changed his tune. Maybe he decided this wasn't going to happen and retreated.   
  
Hour and a half. Maze came home, sat her down to talk. Linda was in the hospital. Wounded by Charlotte (Chloe knew she couldn't be trusted) but under circumstances her roommate would not, could not divulge. Lucifer had still been there when she left. That was a thirty minute trip, twenty minutes with no traffic ...

So Chloe called the hospital, got Linda's room number, and grilled the woman with worry. Was she okay? What the hell happened? Did she need anything? Only when the Doctor's wellbeing was confirmed did she dare ask anything about Lucifer.   
  
"He left a little under two hours ago," Linda told her. "Looked convinced about something."  
  
_Try the Lux_ , Linda suggested.  
  
Two hours in, Chloe called his phone. Straight to voicemail. Ice formed in her stomach. _He got cold feet and ran_ , said her mind. _He's fine. He's just not coming._  
  
But then she remembered the concrete in his voice. The certainty. Lucifer, running from _whatever that was_? No. Not possible. It didn't make sense. _It might_. Anxiety twisted her stomach into a knot. Every passing minute wrenched it tighter.   
  
Chloe would call at intervals. Every ten minutes. Every five. _Every two_. At the third hour she dumped her coffee into the sink, grabbed her keys, and rolled out.  
  
The actual club section of the Lux was hopping away, brimming with guests that danced and grinded and sang and drank. Chloe skimmed the crowd, casually pushed away the plastered men making moves on her, and slinked her way to the elevator. Once in the penthouse, her search led her through every corner, every closet, every bed ... but it was the piano that caught her attention. It was shattered into several pieces. Had there been a fight? There was no blood. But Lucifer loved that piano ...

No Amenadiel in sight. And Lucifer's car wasn't in the parking garage.  
  
She slipped into her car and dialed his number again.  
  
Voicemail.   
  
_To hell with it._ "Lucifer, I got your message. Where are you?" _Keep your voice level. Don't sound frantic._ The rising blackness in her gut churned. "I stopped by the Lux and saw the piano ... Are you okay? Call me back."

Five minutes. Chloe tapped on the steering wheel. Ten minutes. She cranked the engine and drove until the hospital was in sight.

She was on her third patrol of the parking lot - by car the first two, on foot this time - and was just about to surrender to her thoughts about Lucifer skipping town when she found his crushed phone by the emergency entrance.   
  
  
  
  


 


End file.
